Spewing expletives would have made me feel better.

I believe her apology, but I don’t believe her reasoning.

I can be crass at times. I’ve been told I have a sharp tongue. My humor is expressed through insults, sarcasm and harmless physical interaction. And one who carries these attributes can generally recognize others who do as well.

I love bantering with those who share my humor. I’m open game to your comedic insults and am prepared to bounce them right back. To be granted a front row seat in my life, quick wit will get you there. You either have it or you don’t. And if you don’t, the backfire can be a bitch.

Insulting someone without the backdrop of humor is very dangerous. But what is worse, is insulting someone just to be mean and then later using the excuse of humor as a way to dig yourself out of a self-inflicted hole. It doesn’t work. The table is then turned and you end up looking like an idiot. Sweating under that hot spotlight, you realize your wiggle room is rapidly decreasing.

Although I now find the humor in the following story, it still hits a sensitive nerve that I cannot shake.

It was beautiful outside. Standing on the sidelines of a little league football game, I felt the cool breeze and realized that autumn was well on its way. Good weather, good friends, a good game and my loyal companion ChaCha by my side. Not being a sports-kinda-gal, I didn’t know the rules of the game. I may not know what a fumble is, but I cheered on the team as if I were a football fanatic. Life was good. Spirits were high. We were living out a Norman Rockwell painting.

That is until she walked over.

The Scene: I’m standing next to a long-time friend watching his nine year old son push people down on the football field and ChaCha is sweetly sitting at my feet. My friend’s 72 year old mother is there. Although one would assume she’s there to watch her grandson play football, turns out she was there to irritate the hell out of me.

She walks over to me and stands right in front of me looking me straight in the eyes…

Her: Your dog is ugly.
Me: ---
Her: ---
Me: Excuse me?
Her: He’s ugly.
Me: No she’s not.
Her: Yes he is.
Me: SHE is NOT ugly.
Her: Yes he is.
Me: (giving her “go straight to hell” look)
Her: I guess he’s nice, but he’s ugly.

It was at this point I had a decision to make.

I could either call her a variety of words that would make even a sailor blush… or I could walk away. I thought about the first option. I already had the words picked out and in what order I was going to say them. Cussing out a 72 year old woman didn’t bother me. Cussing her out in front of small children didn’t even bother me. What bothered me was cussing out my friend’s mother. I respect my friend. I love him dearly and I felt verbally assaulting his mother right in front of him might cause some sort of wrinkle in our friendship. Especially since he didn’t hear her verbally assault me first because he was too busy rooting on his future NFL player.

So I chose option B. Not the most fun out of the two options. However, before I jetted off with my ugly dog, I did give her the meanest look I’ve ever given anyone. My evil look reached through her pupils and so deep into her soul I know it had to have caused her physical pain. I swear she turned to stone and crumbled as I pivoted away.

Let’s break this down…

I may think your dog is ugly. I may even talk to my friends about it and snicker behind your back. But I would never – NEVER – tell you to your face “Your dog is ugly.” Never. There are just certain things in life you don’t have to be honest about. It’s okay to have an opinion and NOT share it. Plus, ChaCha isn’t ugly. I think that’s what peeves me the most. She’s not. Here’s proof and here’s proof.

Later that evening I discussed the hateful situation with my friend. I told him his mother was rude and I felt she owed me an apology.

Flash forward two days later…

I’m walking out of my garage to water my soon-to-be-dead flowers and I find this irritant of a woman on my front porch. She’s looking for me. Great.

Her: Becca, come here I want to talk to you.
Me: Well, I’m kinda busy. Why don’t you come down here.
Her: I was told I hurt your feelings.
Me: Uh, yup. You sure did.
Her: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I was only playing.
Me: Playing? You weren’t playing.
Her: I’m sorry.
Me. You know, there are certain things in life you DON’T do. That’s to say to someone’s face that their kid or pet is ugly. It’s just rude.
Her: Please accept my apology?
Me: It’s accepted. This is over.

She said she was “playing.” That’s crap.

I can’t believe she pulled out the humor card. She obviously doesn’t realize she’s talking to the Queen of Sarcasm. I invented sarcasm. I own it. And she’s no where close to it. Plus even if that were the case, she would have apologized a second after she said it due to the crushed look on my face. You don’t play like that. At least not with me. I know how to play and that ain’t playing.

I’m sure I’ll get over this eventually. Surely. I mean, if someone told me this story, I would find it quite humorous. Getting all in a huff because someone said your dog is ugly sounds like a Seinfeld plot.

Even though I’m sure I don’t have to prove to anyone again that ChaCha’s not ugly, here’s more proof.

Ok, I’m done. I’m totally over it now. Time for me to go feed my ugly dog.

Dear Crazy People

You know who you are.

I know I hide behind the “Just a Crazy Woman” virtual mask, but the truth is… I’m not. Sure, I’m a little nutty, pretty complex, at times eccentric, kinda creative and incredibly insecure… but I’m not in any way mentally deranged. I’m not certifiable. I’ve never even once been held in a straight jacket. Well, maybe once, but that was for something entirely different. Kinky does not mean crazy. Unless your definition of kinky involves barnyard animals. In that case, you’re both kinky AND crazy.

If I had a dime for every time a guy has told me about his “crazy” ex-wife or ex-girlfriend, I’d be living it up in Belize right now. Lounging in a hammock and enjoying the ocean breeze while sipping some sort of tropical drink with one of those cute little paper umbrellas.

I’d have to change my name to “Just a Rich Woman.”

I don’t know what it is. These men. Calling all their ex’s crazy. Are they? I mean really… are they? What does this say about you if you find yourself dating all these crazy women? There’s only one common denominator… and that’s you, baby.

Sure, I can say that I’ve never been in a “healthy” relationship. Obviously. I’ll be 37 in two weeks and have never been married or even remotely close to it. That’s gotta say something right there. Not that all marriages are healthy. Because I realize they’re not. And, please, save all the emails saying how much better it is getting married “later in life.” This is totally not the point of this blog.

I’m writing this blog to all the crazy people.

The people who are ruining it for the rest of us. Stop it. Stop going out with guys and scaring the hell out of them by falling in love with them on the second date. Stop the stalking. Stop the crying about wanting to have a baby even though you’ve only been dating a month. Stop trying on wedding dresses behind his back. Stop trying to control his every move and every breath. Just STOP IT!

Stop freaking a guy out so bad that it makes him project all YOUR craziness onto us normal people. I have my own issues. I don’t need yours, too. My insecurities are enough to keep me busy. I don’t have time to be blamed for your infidelities, manipulation and birth-control-pill-popping forgetfulness. Do you realize how hard it is for a guy to see the essence of who I am while your back-stabbing, rumor spreading, and heel stomping energy is floating in the way?

And to all you men who find it necessary to talk about your crazy ex’s.

Don’t. The last thing you need to tell some new person is about your last trip to Crazy Town. It scares us normal people. We then want to know why you went there. Did you just drive through? Did you stay only a night or two? Did you invest in property? How long was it before you realized where you were? And once you did, how quickly did it take you to get your ass out of town?

That is unless your new person is another crazy.

Then this will scare them into hiding their craziness behind a “normal” mask. It takes about 45 days for it all to seep to the relationship surface. By then it just might be too late because they’re already picking out His & Hers monogrammed bath towels.

I can honestly say I have never called an ex “crazy.”

Sure, they’ve been controlling. Abrasive. Uninterested. Lazy. Boring. Confusing. But crazy? Nope. I save that terminology for those who truly deserve it.

Thank you for your time,

Just a Crazy Woman

Why I Hate Christmas

For most of my life I’ve been called Scrooge when it comes to Christmas. I’m hoping to set the record straight and attempt to defend my already questionable reputation.

Christmas is great. It’s wonderful. Really. I swear.

You can smell cinnamon cider in the air. Children are gleefully playing in the snow. People are sharing their love through gift giving. Carolers are caroling. Sleigh bells are ringing. Blah Blah Blah… You get the drift, I’m sure.

No matter who you are, you have to agree that when its Christmas time the cheese factor is pretty high. People buy sweaters that have snowmen, santas or candy canes scattered all over them. They don’t buy just one… but they buy a crap load so they can wear them E.V.E.R.Y. freakin day. And apparently large Christmas tree earrings are a must when trying to pull off the appropriate Christmas attire. If YOU are one of these people, I mean no ill will towards you personally… just your insanely cheesy wardrobe. To me, Christmas makes the world appear as if the Clipart Fairy threw up all over it.

Christmas = Presents.

I love giving presents as well as receiving them. No doubt about it. But as a kid, I enjoyed sleeping more than I did Christmas morning. While normal children wake up with excitement billowing inside them, I was that odd kid who opted to sleep in. So every year on Christmas morning my excited older brother would run into my room, disrupt my peaceful slumber, and loudly announce that Santa had visited us during the night. It would almost take an act of congress to get me out of that warm bed. One year my most thoughtful brother received a Polaroid camera from Santa. Instead of the usual Christmas routine of forcing me out of bed, he took Polaroid’s of all my presents and brought them to my bedside. Sad story, but sweet guy.

There’s a fine line between cheese and non-cheese.

If I ever do cheese, the cheese has to be so obvious that it’s understood. Make sense? The cheese becomes the joke. This I’m okay with. Of course, if ever I had children, I’m sure my house would have been adorned with all the fake snow, yard art, and animated santas that money can buy. And I'm sure the poor things would have worn snowflake dresses and Rudolf ties. Not at the same time of course…

I’m now trying to accept the cheese within.

I’ve been given more grief about my Christmas attitude than I can shake two cinnamon sticks at. I’m not one to mold myself into what other’s expect of me, but I feel I am someone who is willing to adopt someone else’s outlook if it makes sense. I may be naturally stubborn, but not so much that I slam the door in your face if you don’t agree with my point of view.

All that to say, I’m trying to find that cheesy Christmas spirit that lurks deep, deep, deep inside me. That verrrrrry tiny place where the love of a snowman tie and a candy cane sweater struggles to survive. The incredibly small corner of my heart that is reserved only for big plastic yard art and red foil Christmas trees. Like I said, I’m trying.

Act your way into a feeling.

I’ve even listened to Christmas radio in hopes to magically absorb some of this holiday cheer. Not only in my car, but I – on extremely rare occasions – have listened to it in my office. This has freaked some of my coworkers out. They don’t know what’s going on and have grown concerned about me. I assure them that my name still is Becca and I have not been abducted by tiny-stupid-Christmas-elf-aliens. Just know that the day I show up in a Christmas sweater, I’ll have fallen way over the edge. At that point, I'll be beyond saving. Run. Save yourselves.

A little too late?

As I write this, I wonder now if Christmas was the right holiday to begin my new pro-cheese life. Maybe I should have started with Columbus Day or something. A holiday less visually celebrated in order to start off slow with little pressure. Maybe make it a goal to wish at least 12 people “Happy Columbus Day”. If the day seems to be going okay, I could hum “America the Beautiful” as if it came naturally. Then branch out the next year to Fourth of July - maybe sporting a red, white & blue attire for the day while passing out tiny flags. Adopting a new holiday each year is a good idea to me. Then by the time the King of Cheese holiday is to be incorporated into the list, I’ll be better prepared.

I should have come up with this brilliant idea before I started torturing myself. One person can only hear “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” so many freakin times in their day before they fearl the men in white jackets coming to take them away.

Which reminds me of the lyrics of my life's theme song:

"They're coming to take me away, ha-haaa!! They're coming to take me away, ho-ho, hee-hee, ha-haaa"

My Latest Soapbox

As everyone in the world knows by now, Madonna adopted a child from Malawi, Africa.

And we all know of this on-going conflict between her and the child’s biological father, but what has caught my attention is the ridiculing of Madonna for adopting a child from another country.

People are saying things like, “There are so many children right here in America that need to be adopted. How dare she go to a foreign country. We need to take care of our own first.”

I had a relatable conversation a few weeks ago.

About a month ago I learned that my cousin (on my dad’s side) and his wife are selling all of their belongings and moving to Lebanon. I don’t know exactly their plan, but it’s obviously to help the Lebanese people in some way.

A few weeks ago I was telling my uncle (on my mother’s side) about my cousin’s decision. He became very critical of my cousin’s choice. He didn’t understand why anyone would move to a foreign country when there’s plenty of help needed here.

Two different stories. Same complaint.

I have absolutely no desire to move to a foreign country to “help” anyone. Whether it is on a mission trip, to help an orphanage, to feed the poor, to sweep the streets…

It’s just not in my heart. It’s not something that I’m drawn to and I can’t relate to people, like my cousin, who are. However, I think it’s fine if he wants to go. Go. I respect him for following his passion – no matter how different it is than mine.

See, I believe, that it takes all kinds of people. All kinds of passions. All kinds of hearts. Everyone. If we all had the same passion, this world would have ended a long time ago.

There are people who desire a child from another country. Great! That’s one more hungry, sick child in this world that is saved. Have you read up on the plethora of Chinese girl babies being tossed away because of their one-child policy?

There are people who desire an American baby. Great! I say go for it. Of course, once you adopt a black baby then everyone will criticize you for not adopting a white one. There are plenty of American babies that need to be rescued.

Here’s my point: We all have different ideas of what needs to be done to make this world, and our lives, better. We need all these different ideas.

If you had an extra $1000 and were asked to give it to a charity… which one would you choose?

Make a Wish Foundation? Special Olympics? National Association for the Deaf? Ovarian Cancer Research Fund? Girl Scouts? National Parkinson Foundation? Humane Society? Your church’s food bank?

A friend of mine who recently was given a clean bill of health after a battle with stage four ovarian cancer, just very well might choose Ovarian Cancer Research. She might see the importance of this non profit organization. She might feel that donating to the Girl Scouts is a waste of money since they rob us each year via Thin Mints or (my most favorite) Tagalongs.

Personally, I would give my money to the Humane Society. Some people might not understand why I would donate money to help a dog instead of donating it to help a starving child. Sure, I could tell you my reasons, but they really don’t matter. Some people feel that helping humans is much more important. And I’m not going to argue with them... because they are wrong. And they’re right.

They are all important and not important.

My cousin’s thing might not be helping the homeless in his community. And that’s cool, because I’m sure there are other people in his community that do have that passion.

If you complain that Madonna adopted an African baby, then prove your point by adopting your very own American one. What… don’t want to? You don’t want to save the life of that poor American child that Madonna didn’t adopt?

Don’t worry. It’s not your thing. I understand. But it apparently is her thing.

Am I making any sense here? Am I just talking in circles?

I’m not sure about you, but I need all you people that have different ideas of what needs to be fixed or helped, because, frankly, I have no desire to do about 99% of it.